


Shifting Figures

by killerqueer



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: All characters are in their early 20s, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bev gets him a job as a figure model, Eddie is a sassy binch, Eventual Smut, Figure Model/Artist AU, M/M, Mike and Bill are both sweet supportive angels, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Richie is an artist and when he shows up to the group Stan is posing for Stan is SHOOK, Stan is broke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-03-09 07:18:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13476462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killerqueer/pseuds/killerqueer
Summary: Stan Uris should have known not to get too comfortable in his new job as a figure model for a group of local artists. Sure the money was great, but when a ridiculously attractive young artist, Richie Tozier, joins the group, the easy dynamic he had felt with the others goes right out the window, because all he can think about is Richie’s eyes on him and how much he wants Richie’shandson him instead.***THIS FIC IS ON INDEFINITE HIATUS - I pretty much left the IT fandom ages ago then deleted my tumblr in protest of the new regulations the set in the wake of SESTA/FOSTA back in the fall, so I figured I should put it out there here just in case that unless the 2019 film resurges my love for this fandom, my inspiration wells have run dry and as of right now, I do not have plans to finish this fic. I'm sorry to anyone who cared about the story and thank you to everyone who left feedback! I really appreciate each and every one of you!!





	1. A Normal Wednesday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [breathplayed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathplayed/gifts).



> Hey loves! This fic goes out to breathplayed (aka [@stonedzier](https://stonedzier.tumblr.com) on tumblr) bc Emma is literally an angel of Stozier and I'm blessed that she let me rant about this to her like almost a month ago about this when we didn't even really know each other that well and now it exists and she's been so supportive of it and beta'd and everything! basically, I LOVE U ❤️
> 
> This idea came from when I used to be a figure model (though there weren't any hot young artists flirting with me like Stan haha, just one awkward young dude who was kind of weird haha), and I've always wanted to use it as a meet cute for a fic so here it is! I hope you enjoy it ❤️

Stan stares back and forth between his budget, the bills that had arrived in the mail that week, and his bank statement when it occurs to him that he’s totally and utterly fucked. He is officially six months out from graduation, his student loans have kicked in and his accounting internship and his job at the coffee shop are officially not enough to cover his new bills.

His parents had agreed to help him out if he came back home after college and went to rabbinical school, but Stan didn’t want to be stuck in Derry forever so he had turned down the help and gotten an apartment in Brooklyn with his childhood friend and college roommate Bill, and Bill’s boyfriends, sure that in a city as big as New York, work would be easy to come by.

The first few months had been great. His combined salary from his shitty internship and his shitty coffee shop covered his bills and was just barely enough to make it possible for him to maybe go out for drinks once or twice a month.

But now that the reality of his student loans was crashing down on him, he was no longer sure he had made the right decision.

He has always been good with money and had a savings account, but it has been eaten up quickly by his security deposit and those first few months of loans. Mike has a steady government job at the New York Public Library, Eddie is a pediatric nurse, and Bill’s writing is finally starting to take off - in niche markets sure, but he’s still starting to make good money from it.

Stan is the only one left with crappy student level jobs, and he knows his friends won’t kick him out if he can’t keep up with the rent. They’re entirely too kind if he’s honest, and would probably offer to help _pay_ his rent, but the idea of being a burden on his friends financially is honestly more humiliating to him than moving back to Maine.

So no, he decides. He’s not going to say anything to his roommates, and he’s going to figure something out. He’s nothing if not resourceful - he’s a goddamn Eagle Scout thank you very much. He takes another look at his bills, crunching the numbers on his phone, and decides if he cancels his phone plan and gets a Tracfone instead, he can just barely squeeze out another month to figure out a new employment situation.

Needless to say, it doesn’t go well.

And that’s how he finds himself calling a house meeting and sitting Bill, Eddie, and Mike down around their kitchen table telling them that he’s moving out.

“Where is this coming from, Stan?” Mike asks, wearing a kind, concerned smile that makes Stan’s insides twist with guilt.

“I’ve looked at the numbers every possible way, guys,” he sighs. “I can’t afford to live here anymore. Not working the jobs I am, and I haven’t been able to find anything better. I’m not leaving you high and dry or anything, I put an ad on Craigslist for a subletter, and I’m interviewing candidates next week. I just wanted to tell you guys first.”

He stares at the three others across the table from himself anxiously. He has been dreading having this conversation and he knows that the others were concerned about him. He had been more withdrawn than usual for weeks and he had been terrible at hiding it. They had all tried to approach him about it individually but he had just brushed them off and now here they were.

They stare back at him incredulously for a long moment, before Eddie rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to snap at Stan.

“You fucking idiot.”

“What?” he asks defensively. “You have a better solution?”

“I have a thousand, you dumbass,” Eddie continues, and Stan chooses to ignore Mike stifling his laughter at his partner’s fiery attitude.

“D-d-do you r-really think we’re gonna let you luh-leave without a fuh-fight?” Bill asks, not unkindly, putting a soothing hand on Eddie’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him down. “W-we can p-puh-pay more, you know, it’s no t-truh-trouble.”

“That’s exactly what I _don’t_ want,” Stan sighs, rolling his eyes. “I’m not going be a burden and pay an unfairly low amount of rent while you guys pay all the bills.”

“I mean, you’re really paying an unfairly high amount of rent if you think about it,” Mike says calmly, and Bill nods beside him. “It’s hardly fair that you pay almost three times the amount that each of us pays and for the smaller room to boot.”

“I’m not going to let you guys pay more money to have less space when you’re all sharing a single room and I have a space all to myself,” Stan groans. He’d fought them tooth and nail about this when they moved in and had wanted to split the apartment evenly four ways.

“What do you expect us to do, live separately?” Eddie asks sarcastically. “Have separate bedrooms and take turns on which one we fuck in?” he continues, ignoring Bill’s choking at his crudeness and barreling on. “Or what, have one room for sleeping, one room for fucking, and one room for our fucking closet, while you what...sleep in the cupboard?”

Mike laughs openly this time, and fixes Eddie with a calm, but stern look that shut him up, albeit with one last long-suffering eye roll.

“I think what Eddie is _trying_ to say,” he says when he had finally gotten his laughter under control, “is that we share a room because we want to, not out of necessity. It’s not fair that you pay so much more than we do just because you have your own room. We’ve never really been comfortable with it, to be honest, we only agreed because it was the only way to get you to move in in the first place.”

“That’s not the point. I’m not going to be your fucking charity case, Michael,” Stan snaps.

“H-hey!” Bill says sternly, and Stan groans internally because there it is. Bill has on his _‘I’m the leader and I make the decisions’_ face. Stan has seen it a lot less since they grew up, and Bill only ever really brings nowadays it out when someone was pissing him off. “S-stop being a dick, S-Stanley,” and there’s his full fucking name. “You think we w-w-want a s-stranger living in our h-home? You think we w-wouldn’t do a-a-anything to make it w-wuh-work for you to l-live here?”

He holds Bill’s gaze for what felt like ages, and can slowly feel himself being cowed by his friend’s steely glare. Bill is a natural leader. He has a way of making you want to do things for him, and Stan kind of hates him for it.

But he has never really hated Bill. No one could. Growing up, he had felt like everyone was a little bit in love with Bill. It kind of makes sense to him that Bill had ended up with two partners. He just had so much love in him to give.

“Sorry, Mike,” he mumbles, ignoring Bill’s satisfied nod. “I mean it though,” he says, louder this time and looking at his friends seriously.

“So do we,” Mike says, and it’s with that same kind, forgiving, tone that he always had, similar to Bill’s in that he was so good at convincing people to do things his way, but Mike’s wasn’t fierce like Bill’s, it was gentle and loving. “We want you to live here. You’re not doing us a favor by leaving,” he explained. “If you leave we’d just split the rent between the three of us.”

Stan stares at Mike incredulously, but Mike just continues, still smiling that genuine, mollifying smile.

“Bill’s right; we wouldn’t want a stranger living here. So if you’re leaving and we can’t convince you to stay, that’s fine. But you can cancel the interviews because we’re not moving anyone else in,” he says and the finality in his voice takes Stan aback.

“Yeah, maybe we can use your room as our fuck room,” Eddie jokes, staring Stan down with a challenging glare. “In fact, that’s a great idea. Why don’t you leave your bed when you go,” he continued, smirking as Stan visibly blanched at his words.

“Fuck you, Kaspbrak,” he replies, rolling his eyes

“No thanks, they’ve got it covered,” Eddie quips back, gesturing carelessly and Mike and Bill, who laugh (Mike), and turn bright red (Bill), and crossing his arms over his chest.

“So, w-will you stay Stan?” Bill asks, looking up at Stan hopefully. “W-we can fuh-figure it out.”

Stan stares back out at the three of them helplessly. He may have won the rent argument last time, but it was clear that they weren’t backing down this time.

“Fine. But as soon as I find a steady job the rent is going back to the way it was,” he demands, and can’t help smiling back when his friends grin ear to ear at his agreement.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Mike says, pointedly not agreeing which Stan doesn’t miss, but it’s clear that none of them are going to be willing to argue with him about it any more right now.

* * *

Things don’t really change until a few weeks later when Stan is getting lunch with Beverly, the third member of his and Bill’s childhood trio. She and Bill had dated in high school during the brief period of Stan’s life where he had had a crush on Bill himself, and Stan had resented Beverly embarrassingly obviously. He was grateful for her friendship though; he always had been, even when he thought she was stealing Bill away from him when they were kids.

She was the only one in their friend group who had known Bill as long as he had and she was always there if he needed to complain about their best friend, and that was exactly what he needed after the last few weeks.

She had amiably agreed to meet him at the local coffee shop, their usual place for Bill Bitching, as they called it, and he grinned when he arrived to find her sitting at their usual table with his usual order already on the table waiting for him.

“You’re an angel, Bev,” he says, leaning down to give her a one armed hug before shedding his cardigan and hanging it neatly over the back of the chair.

“I know,” she grins, leaning into the hug and then putting her elbows on the table, looking at Stan intently as he took a sip of his coffee, a caramel macchiato, Bev really was an angel. “So what’s the scoop in the big gay household? What did Bill do this time?”

“I hate that you call it that,” Stan says, rolling his eyes, but he’s grinning anyway.

“No you don’t.”

“Whatever. Do you want to know or not?” he demands, and laughs as she rolls her eyes and makes a show of holding her hands up in surrender.

He recounts the story about his financial situation, glossing over the hairy details, not wanting Bev to start offering him assistance as well, and the ensuing house meeting. He tells her about Bill, Mike, and Eddie refusing to let him move out and paying a considerable portion of his rent, and how he’s been struggling to find better work and feeling like a burden.

“Wait, wait,” she says, stopping him before he can go any further. “You mean to tell me that you’re angry with Bill and the others because they finally convinced you to stop paying an exorbitant amount of the rent?” she asked incredulously.

“Well when you say it like that--”

“There’s no other way to say it if it’s the truth, Stan,” she sighs. “We’ve been trying to figure out how to get you to drop your fucking pride and let them pay more rent for months.”

Stan’s mouth drops open in shock at this revelation.

“Oh I don’t want to hear it, Stan,” she says, exasperated, and Stan really doesn’t like to be on the other end of her this conversation. They were here to complain about Bill treating him like a child, damn it.

He chooses to ignore that his internal tantrum is not helping his case.

“We get that you want to hold your own and not have to rely on your parents or anyone else, but this has gotten ridiculous. You’re not being a burden on your friends by letting them pay their fair share of their own fucking apartment. How do you think they’ve been feeling, watching you over extend yourself for months? Don’t think I wasn’t hearing all about how stressed and withdrawn you were for awhile there.”

She stares him down, as if waiting for him to try to argue with her, and when he doesn’t she nods, satisfied, and continues.

“Now, we can complain about how hard it is to find a job in this fucking city as much as you want, but we’re not going to complain about Bill doing the right thing.”

“Fine,” he grumbles. He hates losing so many arguments in such close proximity to one another. He needs to find some less stubborn friends.

“Good,” she says. “Now that we’ve sorted that out, I have a job for you.”

Stan’s head shoots up from where he was staring at his coffee like a sullen teenager at that.

“What is it?” he asks, eyes narrowing suspiciously. Bev was an intern at a fashion magazine, she had no reason to hire an accountant, so he wondered how desperate he would need to be to take whatever job it was she was going to suggest.

“You have to promise to at least think about it and not say no right off the bat,” she prefaces, which doesn’t soothe his concerns at all. He stares at her expectantly, not willing to agree to anything with anything less than full details. Thankfully she lets it go, seemingly still satisfied enough with her last victory.

“Okay, so, I know what it’s like being an intern. It fucking sucks and it pays like shit. How the fuck do you think Ben and I afford our apartment?”

Stan blinks in surprise. He had never actually thought about it, to be honest. Ben, Bev’s boyfriend, had graduated a year before they did with a degree in architecture and had gotten a low level position at an architectural firm in Manhattan, and he had always assumed that he had good pay. And he had also kind of assumed that the magazine just paid Beverly decently. It had never occurred to him that she might need some kind of side hustle.

His silence seems to be the answer she expected, because she continues after giving Stan a moment to think about it.

“Have you ever taken an art class, Stan?”

“You know I haven’t,” he snorts, and she laughs in return, because she did know.

“Well, if you had you would know that schools and other art groups hire people to pose for them. It’s good money, twenty to thirty dollars an hour to be exact, and the hours are flexible. You can essentially make your own schedule, choose to work whatever jobs you want and work as much or as little as you want.”

And now _that_ was an idea, Stan thinks, but he narrowed his eyes at her once more. It all sounded too good to be true. But that money sure sounded nice. It was almost _twice_ what he made per hour at either of his other jobs and all he had to do was what? Stand around while people drew him?

“What’s the catch?” he asks, suspiciously.

“Well,” she says, taking a deep breath, and Stan could tell she was nervous about how he would react to what she was about to tell him. “For figure drawing, the model tends to be naked.”

White noise starts going off in Stan’s ears. He must have misheard her.

“Excuse me, what did you just say?” he asks.

“Oh shut up, Stan, you heard me,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You’re so fucking dramatic. Just think about it, okay? I know a group of artists that are looking for someone for their Wednesday morning drawing group and I can’t do it because I work at the magazine on Wednesday mornings, so I told them I might know someone and I’d get back to them.”

Stan bites his lip anxiously, looking down at his coffee and then taking a sip just to stall, more than anything. He was so distracted by Bev’s suggestion that could barely taste the coffee at this point.

Bev, bless her, just leans back in the squishy armchair she was sitting in and takes a sip of her own coffee, letting him think about it.

“ _If_ I agreed to do this - and that’s a _big_ if, Bev,” he starts, wishing she would stop grinning at him like that. “ _If_ I agreed to do this, what exactly would it entail?”

* * *

The following Wednesday, Stan finds himself standing outside the door of a rather nondescript brick building a few train stations away from his apartment, nervously fidgeting with the zipper pocket on his messenger bag.

Bev had told him to wear comfortable clothes like sweatpants and t-shirts - they won’t leave lines, and oh god, that just reminded him that there are going to be a group of strangers who are going to be looking at his completely naked body so intently that they’d be able to see the _lines his clothing left on his body_.

He zips and unzips and zips and unzips over and over again, the fingers of his other hand rubbing at the strap that crosses over his chest. He has a robe inside the bag. _A fucking robe_. What even is his life anymore?

But the idea that he’d be leaving the three hour session with ninety dollars _cash_ in his pocket, just for sitting around and posing for a few hours, makes him take a deep breath and reach for the doorknob. He pulls up the email he had received from Maggie, the woman who ran the group, that gave him directions on how to get to her studio, and scans through them for approximately the twenty seventh time.

He climbs the stairs, flight after flight until he reaches the third floor, and walks down the long concrete hallway until he finds a door with a curtain hanging over the glass panel from the inside, and a flip sign hanging from the front of the door that says

“Come in! Model _not_ in Session!”

Curiously, he peeks at the other side.

“Please knock! **Model in Session!** ”

And that small gesture makes him feel the tiniest bit more comfortable knowing that people wouldn’t just be barging in while he was naked in the middle of the studio.

He lifts his hand and turns the doorknob slowly, pushing the door open and peeking his head through to find an empty studio. The artwork covering the walls is beautiful, and there’s a small raised platform in the center of the room where a chair is sitting at the center of the room, but no sign of any people.

He panics for a moment, wondering if he got the day and the time right, but no, Bev had said Wednesday at 10:00 in the morning, please arrive fifteen minutes early. And it was Wednesday morning, he glanced at his watch, 9:45 on the dot.

“Hello?” he calls out hesitantly.

No response. He takes half a step into the room, looking at the portraits and still lifes that filled the room, covering almost every inch of wall space, other paintings piled on shelves, and practically spilling out of the closets. There was a paint stained sink in the corner and a large dressing shade blocking off another corner.

“Hello?” he calls again, louder this time.

This time he hears a loud crash from a door on the other side of the room and a string of swears, followed by the sound of shuffling feet. As his eyes widen nervously, a small, eccentric and harried middle aged woman with hair that’s been pulled back into a wild bun that is practically exploding out of it’s hair tie comes out of the small closet.

She smiles brightly when her gaze lands on him, and she excitedly hurries over to him.

“You must be Stanley!” she says, approaching him with a warm smile that makes him feel surprisingly comfortable. “Beverly told us all about you, we’re so thrilled to have you with us today! I hear you have ballet experience?” she asks, but keeps talking and Stan assumes he wasn’t meant to answer. “That’s so exciting. We love working with dancers - they always make the most beautiful poses,” she continues, and Stan is immediately nervous again.

He doesn’t like knowing they have expectations like that of him.

She doesn’t seem to notice his hesitation, which is probably for the better since he feels on the verge of running out the door and never coming back. He thinks one wrong move could spook him like a wild animal and he would be gone.

“Have you ever done this before?” she asks, to which he shakes his head _no_. “Oh well that’s just fine!” she says with a smile, and gestures for Stan to follow her.

“This is my studio,” she explains, leading him around the space. So these paintings were hers. He stops dead in his tracks at the sight of a beautiful one of Beverly, lounging on a victorian couch, half laying down and half sitting up, her knees bent and draped over one another and her torso twisted so that her back was facing the viewer, her right arm resting on the arm of the couch, but her head was turned over her shoulder looking right at him.

“That’s beautiful,” he says quietly, not meaning to say it out loud, but Maggie just laughs and thanks him, saying that Beverly is a beautiful girl to which he smiles and nods, following her once more.

“This is where you’ll be posing today, and whenever you’re ready you can go over there to change out of your clothes and into your robe,” she explains, gesturing to the platform and the dressing shade he had noticed when he walked in.

“We usually start with a series of ones, threes, fives, and tens - that is, one minute, three minute, five minute, and ten minute poses,” she explains and he nods. “You generally save your more complicated poses for the ones and threes, and the simpler, easier to hold ones for the fives and tens,” and that all seems simple enough to Stan.

“We’ll do that for about an hour and then move on to the long pose for the last two. If you ever need a break to stretch your limbs, let us know - you’ll need it,” she says with a wink and Stan laughs nervously.

The other artists begin to file in, all seeming to be between the ages of forty and sixty, and all nodding at Stan and waving casually but not paying him much mind. He wonders what it’s like to walk into a room, see someone who you know is going to be completely naked at any minute, and be completely unphased.

He guesses that if he keeps doing this, it probably won’t be weird for him either.

Maggie nods at him encouragingly and he goes to the back corner and steps behind the shade, placing his messenger bag on the small table that is placed back there, and sinks into the armchair next to it.

_What is he doing?_

Bev does this all the time, he reminds himself. You can do it too.

He takes a few deep breaths, waiting for the rapid beats of his heart to slow, and gets up before kneeling to untie his shoes. That’s safe enough to start with, he decides, and when he carefully toes them off, stuffing his socks neatly inside them, he stands once more. His hands awkwardly pull off his sweater, folding it neatly and placing it on the table before coming to grip the hem of his t-shirt. He hesitates for a moment before breathing again and pulling the t-shirt over his head.

The cool air hits his chest and he shivers, goosebumps spreading across his exposed skin, before his fingers find the waistband of his sweatpants. It’s now or never, he guesses, and he pushes it slowly down his hips, taking his briefs down with them.

He looks down self consciously at the naked expanse of his skinny chest, and legs, his feet looking large and awkward without his shoes and his dick hanging flaccid and disinterested. _Well thank god for that at least,_ he thinks. The last thing he needs right now is an erection - the thought is almost comical enough to make him laugh.

“Are you almost ready, Stanley?” Maggie calls from the other side of the shade.

He looks at his watch.

9:58 AM.

“Yes,” he calls back and pulls his robe out of his bag. It’s a ratty light blue bathrobe he’s had for years, and he feels a little silly wearing it here, but he steps out, cringing slightly at the dust and paint chips under his bare feet as he walks towards the smiling group of artists, stepping up onto the platform.

“Whenever you’re ready, Stanley!” Maggie says cheerily, and Stan offers a weak smile in return, realizing she means _whenever he’s ready to drop the robe._

He nods and his shaking fingers move to the knot he had tied at his waistband, tugging at its tails to loosen enough for him to open the ties, letting them fall to his sides. His fingers grab the lapels of the robe, pulling it open over his chest and off his shoulders until he is fully exposed in this room full of middle-aged artists, some of whom are looking at him pleasantly, others who are more interested in sorting their pencils and paints.

The complete normalcy he sees in their eyes is what grounds him. This is just a normal Wednesday for them. It can be a normal Wednesday for him too, he decides.

He drops the robe at the corner of the platform where it won’t be in his way, and turns out his left foot, extending his right behind him and holding his left arm out to the side and his right arced above his head for his first ‘one’.

The artists smile and lay into their sketch pads, and Stan’s confidence is already rising.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading - I hope you all enjoyed it! Richie will show up in the next chapter, I promise! Just had to set up the universe and such with this chapter!
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts so far, so feel free to leave a comment and/or come say hi on tumblr - [@sunflowerstozier](https://sunflowerstozier.tumblr.com)!


	2. SOS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A handsome (but annoying) stranger shows up to the drawing group and doesn't go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all, here's the latest chapter! I read through and fixed what I noticed myself, but this one is otherwise unbeta'd so if there are any typos or anything sorry!
> 
> I hope you like it! ❤️

It becomes Stan’s normal Wednesday and then eventually his Monday, and every other Friday and Sunday as well. He finds that he’s good at it and Maggie refers other groups to him until he doesn’t have the time or the physical ability to take on any more. He likes having a routine, but Maggie wasn’t joking about it being rough on his limbs, and he’s come to realize that some groups are more understanding of his human need for breaks than others. Maggie and her group, who he works with on Wednesdays and Sundays, are always happy to let him get up and stretch his limbs every twenty or so minutes, as are Simon and the class he teaches on Mondays. But he dreads Fridays with Bess’ group.

Bess gets annoyed and snaps at him if he ever asks for a break more often than every forty-five minutes, and even then sometimes she’ll give him dirty looks while he stands from the platform, his joints practically cracking, stretching his aching muscles, and drinks his water. He realizes that he definitely underestimated the job and the toll it takes on his body, and he finds himself spending a session's worth of pay weekly getting a massage to work out his sore joints and muscles.

It’s worth it though. It’s supplemented the income he was missing and then some; though despite this fact, Bill, Mike, and Eddie are still refusing to let him go back to paying his old amount of rent. They insist that he needs to rebuild his savings, but he can tell that even when he has done that, they’re sure to come up with another excuse for why he shouldn’t be paying more rent.

And on top of that, it’s given him something else he never expected or asked for, which is a new awareness and comfort in his body. He feels less awkward in his own skin now, and when he looks at the paintings and drawings that the artists will excitedly show him when he takes his breaks, he sees himself the way that they see him.

The first time someone asks if he would keep their work, he’s completely taken aback. Honored, he shyly thanks them and carefully tucks the dried watercolor into his messenger bag on his way out of the studio. If he tears up in his room when he gets home and finally pulls it out, seeing the beautiful watercolors depicting an almost ethereal looking image of his back, lounging on the platform with his weight on one of his arms, the other resting on his leg, no one needs to be the wiser. You can’t see his face, the artist had been standing directly behind him, but with the curly hair and his bony fingers, it’s unmistakably Stan.

When Mike sees the painting and shows it to Bill and Eddie, they all insist on framing it and hanging it up in their living room. Stan is thoroughly embarrassed by the gesture, but he can’t help but smile every time he walks by and sees it on the wall.

His roommates, for their part, are surprised to see how well Stan thrives in the job. Eddie especially had been sure it was going to be a terrible idea; Stan was much too stiff and awkward to be comfortable standing naked in a room full of people he insisted. To which he was promptly smacked upside the head in an affectionate warning from Mike. But even they saw the positive effect it was having on Stan.

He talks about it with Bev on the rare occasions they now have to grab coffee together now that their schedules are both so busy. He tells her about how he had expected to feel uncomfortable and anxious with all of those eyes on his body, but the complete lack of sexuality involved is actually peaceful. He just listens as the artists talk amongst themselves about their children, and their grandchildren, all while gazing back and forth between Stan and their easels.

They laugh about the first time one of the artists, a sweet elderly woman, asked Stan if he would mind if she took a photograph and how shocked he had been at the request. Beverly quite literally _howls_ the first time he tells her the story, apologizing for not warning him that they do that. His initial obviously visceral reaction had flustered the poor woman so badly she had practically squeaked out an embarrassed apology until Maggie came over to explain to Stan that it was just for reference of the pose and lighting for working on paintings at home.

Eddie thinks it’s just _fucking hilarious_ that a bunch of elderly folks casually have naked photos of Stan on their cellphones.

But all of this together has become what his life is like, and months after starting this job, he’s down to bare bones hours at the coffee shop, continuing to make connections at the accounting firm he’s interning at in the hopes of becoming full time by the time the year-long program is over, and actually able to truly support himself on his own for the first time in his life.

When he walks up the steps to Maggie’s studio on a blustery February day, the freezing winds whipping his curls back and forth as he burrows into his thick wool coat, he’s expecting nothing but the usual. He’s going to get up there, point the tiny space heater Maggie has there for him at the platform in the pathetic hope that it might actually keep him warm, pose for a few hours, collect his money and head off to the coffee shop for his afternoon shift.

He pushes open the heavy wooden door, flipping over the sign as he does so, and waves at the familiar faces, some of them offering him the same warm greetings that he receives most Wednesdays, as he walks towards the privacy screen at the back of the room.

He’s not looking forward to stripping off his clothes today. They had had a few warmer days last week where the snow melted and winter didn’t feel so harsh, but today it’s back in full force, reminding everyone in the northeast exactly how cruel it can be. It’s slightly warmer in the studio then it is outside but the large windows on two walls don’t help, and without the protection of his clothing, he knows he’s going to be freezing for the next few hours.

Begrudgingly, he unbuttons his jacket, hanging it neatly on the back of the armchair, and his sweater follows suit. It takes so little time for him to undress now, no longer thinking anything of it, aside from his need to ensure everything is folded neatly to avoid wrinkles later on. After tucking his wool socks into his boots he quickly reaches for the warm blue robe, wishing he wasn’t going to have to take it off only moments later and steps out from behind the screen.

He doesn’t see him right away. He makes small talk with Barry and Maggie for a few minutes, logistics, and scheduling, and that sort of thing, but as soon as he turns away from them to make his way to the platform, he stops dead in his tracks.

Sitting a few feet ahead of him, directly in front of the podium and hunched over an easel as he tries to set it up, is the most beautiful man he thinks he’s ever seen in his life. He looks like he’s probably Stan’s age - maybe a year or two older, with long dark hair that’s been pulled back into a messy bun that Stan would probably roll his eyes at on anyone else but on him it makes Stan’s breath catch in his throat. His tight - oh god, were they tight, black jeans had tears in the knees and paint stains on the thighs and Stan can see how threadbare the ratty t-shirt he has on is underneath his grey flannel. If he was close enough he could probably see through it in some spaces.

All in all, everything about him is everything that Stan hates and everything that would be a complete deal breaker on anyone else but Stan can’t tear his eyes away from his sharp cheekbones, his long and slightly crooked nose (that looks like it may have been broken at least once), and his full, plush lips. There are a few hairs hanging that have fallen out of the bun which frame his face beautifully and Stan thinks he may have forgotten how to breathe.

“Hey Stan!” he hears, somewhat distantly, to his left and he’s pulled harshly out of his thoughts. He turns to see a few of the other artists who have seen him come out and are waving at him, smiling like they always do and Stan blushes, worried that he’s been caught staring.

He waves back and stammers out a hello before turning back to the platform. Only to have his eyes caught once again by the man he had been staring at, who was now looking right at him and staring him dead in the eye with a curiously raised brow and a small smirk toying at the corners of his mouth.

The smirk spreads wider and the man offers him a silent wave.

Stan clutches the front of his robe closed tightly at his chest, furious at the way his own body betrays him as he feels a warm flush rising on his cheeks. He tears his gaze away from the man in front to glance at the clock.

_09:59_

Perfect. He makes his way up to the podium, attempting to retain as much dignity as possible as he pointedly avoids the gaze that he can now feel following his every move.

He drops his robe, letting it fall onto the corner of the podium and strides to the center of it. This is going to be just like any other day. If he makes sure to face the opposite direction of the newcomer, no one needs to be the wiser.

Though of course, it doesn’t last. After his first few ones and twos facing anywhere but the side of the room that the handsome stranger is on, Maggie calls out to him when the timer dings.

“Stan, would you mind facing this way? Variety is the spice of life, you know!” she says with a smile, and Stan is sure he’s being paranoid when the thought crosses his mind that she knows exactly what he’s doing.

But he tries not to let it show as he nods and smiles weakly, turning to the other side of the room. He lowers himself to the sheet that lays over the platform to take a seated pose, laying one leg out over the other and leaning onto his left palm for his first five, looking off to the side, staring at the painting of Bev that hangs on the wall above the artist's heads.

God. If Bev could see him now she’d be laughing hysterically.

He stretches his limbs quickly between poses and it’s not long before the man in front of him catches his eye for the third time. He’s so startled that he doesn’t have time to change direction before the next pose, which his how he finds himself sitting with one leg stretched out, one knee up with his arm resting on it and his gaze aiming directly at the man before him.

He wishes the floor would swallow him up whole. He’s on his first ten and the last thing he wants is to be staring right at the man for ten whole minutes. For his part, he stares right back at Stan for a moment, the smirk returning to his face, the teasing eyebrow raised once more, before looking back to his paper to begin sketching Stan’s figure with the charcoal that’s staining his fingers.

Stan can’t help but be transfixed by the look of concentration on his face as he looks intently at his large sketchpad, but he could do without the way his heart sped up almost imperceptibly every time he looked up from the pad to look right at Stan. It wasn’t so bad when he was looking at Stan’s hands or his legs or whatever else, but he had an annoying habit of making direct eye contact every time he looked up, heating Stan’s cheeks and he’s sure that this guy is doing it on purpose.

The third or fourth time it happens he pauses for a moment, holding his gaze as Stan’s cheeks begin to heat up. The hairs on his arms feel like they’re standing on end with static energy and he’s hyper-aware of every part of his body but especially his eyes. He’s never put much stock into the whole “eyes are the windows to the soul” thing, it was too flowery and sentimental for him. Didn’t hold any logic to it. But now he can’t help but be anxious about what this man sees when he’s looking directly into Stan’s eyes like this, and he must be completely transparent because his lips are spreading into a knowing smile that can’t be described as anything but flirtatious.

He goes so far as to wink at Stan before raking his eyes down Stan’s body, focusing on his outer thigh and Stan thinks he might pass out. Objectively, he’s not doing anything different than the other artists by looking at Stan’s body but it _feels_ different. The context feels so much more intense.

As soon as he looks back down at his sketchpad again, without moving his own head, Stan trains his eyes on the wall above him and does his best to keep them there.

He sighs with relief when Maggie’s timer goes off and practically scrambles into another position where he can turn his head entirely away, and as soon as the following pose is done, signaling the end of the quick poses, he asks for a break.

Which he quickly regrets.

When he was posing, the man had just stared at him. But when he pulls his robe back on and practically races to the sink to fill a cup with water, a low, unfamiliar voice comes from behind him.

“I didn’t know they had models as pretty as you coming to our little circlejerks. Maggie’s been holding out on me, it seems.”

Stan almost chokes on the water he had been taking a sip of, but thankfully he’s turned away from the man who knows must be the newcomer. He’s disgusted, but almost relieved at the crudeness; he’s sure that it will only make this easier for him, and schools his face into a look of complete indifference before turning around slowly.

“What a line,” he says, entirely nonplussed as he rolls his eyes so hard he thinks they might actually fall out of his head. “You’ve been here before?” he asks, crossing his arms instinctively over his robed chest, and sneering slightly. The man nods and opens his mouth to speak but Stan cuts him off before he can voice whatever cheesy bullshit is on the tip of his tongue. “So, are you implying that Beverly is a hideous monster?”

He almost laughs out loud at the way the taller man’s mouth snaps shut at that, and he at least has the decency to look embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

And _good lord, is he tall,_ Stan realizes as he looks up at him, but nope. He’s not going to go there right now, and just continues to look up at the man expectantly. For his part, his expression of mild shock is melting into a suspiciously please smile.

“Got claws on you, don’t you?” he says with a wink and Stan outright scoffs at this - who does this guy think he is? But before he can offer a scathing reply, their interrupted by Maggie calling over to them - to him really.

“Stop harassing Stanley, Richard,” she scolds good-naturedly. “The last thing we need is to have you scare him off!”

_So he has a name._

Richard looks like he’s about to reply but Stan doesn’t give him the chance.

“Oh don’t worry about me, Maggie,” he says cooly, though he’s looking at Richard as he speaks. Richard is looking right back at him, a calculating smirk playing on his face as they stare each other down while Stan continues. “I’ve heard worse and better more times than I can count. Richard here is going to have to do better than this to scare me off,” he taunts, his confidence surprising himself, even if it doesn’t seem out of the ordinary to these people who don’t know him.

He’s pretty sure if Bill was here, he might pass out if he heard Stan right now.

In one last burst of confidence that he’s sure will disappear as soon as the robe comes back off, he raises a challenging brow at Richie as he turns on his heel to stalk back across the room.

“Richie,” the man calls from behind him and Stan stops and looks over at his shoulder inquisitively.

“It’s Richie,” he repeats, gesturing to himself.

Stan, in an attempt to keep the upper ground for as long as he can, doesn’t reply. He gives _Richie_ and unimpressed once over before turning back to the platform and stepping up, taking a long drink of the water he had almost forgotten before setting it down.

If he spares one more furtive glance at Richie as he drops his robe, he assures himself it doesn’t mean anything.

* * *

He was hoping that Richie’s presence might be a fluke - he had never been there before, but after that first session, he never fails to show up, much to Stan’s discomfort and annoyance. Logically, he knows that Richie is just another artist. Just because he’s Stan’s age shouldn’t make him feel differently than how he feels posing for the other middle-aged artists. But he can’t help but feel the comfort of his completely non-sexualized nudity fade away every time he catches Richie’s eyes or feels those eyes on his body.

He feels uncomfortably aware of his body when Richie is there, can’t help the small thrill he feels when Richie winks at him every time he arrives and walks towards the partition to change out of his clothes and into his robe.

He makes a point to roll his eyes at Richie every time, but he can’t shake the feeling that Richie can see right through him. The flirting should make it obvious that Richie is into him, but what Stan is finding to be the _most_ insufferable thing about Richie (which says a lot really, because there’s a lot of things about Richie that makes Stan want to strangle him), is that he flirts with _everyone_. He would clearly hit on anyone with a pulse and Stan hates how instead of feeling the satisfaction of being right about him, he gets a sour jealous feeling in the pit of his stomach every time it happens.

He scoffs internally as he walks away from Richie’s latest flirtatious wink to hear him greeting Maggie with a jovial “Maggie, you look simply _ravishing_ today!”

He knows he’s being ridiculous - there’s no way Richie is _seriously_ flirting with Maggie. She’s at least thirty years their senior. But Richie is so unpredictable, Stan can’t fully put it past him.

“Can it, Richard,” he hears her reply as he begins unbuttoning her coat, but she sounds fond.

That’s another thing that he just doesn't understand about Richie. He’s so thoroughly obnoxious, but none of the other artists seem to mind him. They all just smile knowingly at his antics and don’t look away from their canvasses and sketch pads. How are they so unphased?

The worst part of all of it is that despite how god awful Richie is, Stan realizes with complete horror that he would like nothing more than for Richie to kiss him senseless, to wait in his robe until the other artists have gone and feel those charcoal stained fingers all over his body right here in the damn studio. He disgusts himself, really.

He shouldn’t blame himself and he knows it, thinking about it during the day’s long pose that finds him sprawled out on an old Victorian couch that Maggie has in her studio. There’s a pillow behind his back, and he’s sure he that to an outsider he looks comfortable, but he’s been still in this half curled up and twisted position for almost twenty-five minutes and his spine is screaming. The only thing he has to distract himself with are either looking at Richie or thinking about him and he definitely doesn’t want to look at him.

So no, he decides. It’s totally normal for someone like Richie to excite him. Despite how annoying he is, he’s objectively handsome and also the only other peer stan has in this room of middle-aged artists and retirees. Add to that the fact that Stan hasn’t been so much as kissed since the first semester of his senior year of college which was almost a year and a half ago, and he’s surprised he hasn’t broken and given Richie his phone number already.

Not for Richie’s lack of trying.

Every week after he collects his money from Maggie, Richie follows him out the door, dropping one-liners and making completely cringe-worthy attempts at flirting. Since Stan would rather die than admit that it’s actually at least a _tiny_ bit endearing, he always just rolls his eyes and loses him in the crowded subway station on the corner.

His self-control is waning though, and he can feel Richie’s eyes on him like a fucking bat signal.

“Is it alright for me to take a break?” He calls out without moving, unable to take the twisting pain in his back, hips, and shoulders any longer.

“Just one more minute, if you please, Stanley!” she replies cheerily, and he nods in response.

He strains to keep the position as Maggie finishes what she’s working on and stands to take photos of him for reference so they can get him back into the correct position when he returns. As soon as she pockets her phone and thanks him he sighs in relief and rolls his head in a wide circle, wincing at the way it cracks as he moves it after such a long period of stillness.

He stretches his limbs out on the couch for a moment, working his elbows out in circles and pointing and flexing his toes. He ignores the creaking in his knees in favor of sitting up slowly and rubbing at his right thigh that he had been sitting on. It had fallen asleep and is buzzing with pins and needles and he doesn’t dare to stand up on it right away.

Richie’s eyes are still trained on him, a fact that he doesn’t miss as he glances surreptitiously around the room to see Richie, who busies his hands with his paints, head down but still staring.

There’s a fluttering in his stomach that he ignores as he averts his gaze quickly, and slowly stands, bracing himself on the arm of the couch as he grabs his robe and slips it back on, tying it securely at his waist.

He picks up the glass of water that he had set down next to the couch and as he absentmindedly rubs out some tension in his shoulder with his other hand, he begins to walk among the easels. He’s learned that he can avoid Richie during breaks if he stays in the group. He won’t follow him unless he walks away to the sink or out of the earshot of the others, but he never stops staring.

He takes his time walking around amongst the easels, stopping to chat for a moment with the artists if they’re there, but mostly just looking at the paintings. Maggie’s take his breath away as always but they all have such different styles, all beautiful in their own way. He can usually get away with looking (always carefully avoiding Richie’s easel) without much interaction as the artists all talk amongst themselves but today he’s got no such luck.

“Stanley, you’ve got to look at this!” says a kind, excitable voice behind him and he turns curiously to see Sue, a kind retiree who has been taking classes from Maggie and Stan smiles at her, making his way over thinking she wants to show him her painting.

But he stops when he realizes that she’s set up directly behind Richie today. And she’s not gesturing at her own easel. While he had been looking at the others’ paintings, a small crowd had gathered around Richie’s easel and Stan wishes he had just gone to the bathroom instead.

They’re all staring at him expectantly, and for once, it’s all of them except Richie, so Stan can’t do anything but smile weakly and walk over to them. He grips the front of his robe around him like a safety blanket as he approaches and the other artists part ways so he can see the large canvas that rests on Richie’s easel.

Richie himself looks like anything but his normal carefree self, which is intriguing to say the least. Stan almost feels bad for breaching his privacy - he knows that not all of the artists want him to see their work, but he doesn’t feel like he can say no to all of the others who are all nodding and waving him closer.

When he looks away from Richie to look at the painting, he barely stops himself from letting his jaw drop to the floor. They’re about an hour and a half into the two-hour long pose and Stan can see Richie’s light sketch of the backdrop surrounding the rich colors that have been painted onto the center of the canvas. The way the brush strokes mix with each other is almost reminiscent of Maggie’s paintings, but there’s something different about it too and Stan wonders briefly if Richie had been a student of hers.

The muted tones of his skin and hair stark against the crimson of the couch are striking, but what takes his breath away is the way that Richie has painted the light streaming in over stan’s shoulder and face, making his features look almost soft despite the chin that he always felt was too pointy and the sharp jawline that Stan worried looked too harsh. The light that was bathing his figure in Richie’s painting made him look almost ethereal and it wasn’t until someone spoke to his left that he remembered that there were even other people in the room.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Sue says and Stan turns his head to look at her, and just nods in response before looking back at the canvas.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It is.”

“You’ve come so far, Richie,” Sue continues happily, and Stan is grateful that they’ve all stopped staring at him as he looks at all the tiny details that Richie has already included, like the mole on his neck and the shadow from his chin casting a soft purple across his right collarbone. “I remember when you first joined us when you were still in high school, and it’s truly remarkable.”

Stan glances over to Richie who looks almost embarrassed, and cuts in.

“Are you a student of Maggie’s?” he asks curiously and offers Richie a small smile when he looks up at Stan. This is the first time he’s said anything to the other man without a biting tone to accompany it, and he’s sure that’s not lost on Richie, who’s cocky demeanor is starting to come back ever so slightly.

Sue opens her mouth as if she’s about to say something but Richie cuts her off before she can speak.

“Somethin’ like that,” he says cryptically and grins wolfishly back at Stan, who just rolls his eyes in response. So much for having a pleasant conversation.

 _Something like that._ What the hell is that supposed to mean?

* * *

When he makes it back to the apartment, Bill and Eddie are already there. Bill on his laptop, probably working on his latest horror masterpiece, Eddie in the kitchen, having just gotten off a twelve-hour shift at the hospital and Stan is more than relieved to see them.

He drops his bag on the armchair and throws himself face down on the couch with a long, drawn-out groan, and waits in silence for a moment before Bill sighs.

“Wh-what happened this time?” he asks, the smile on his face audible in his voice. “He s-st-still not luh-leaving you alone?”

Stan groans again and shakes his head no into the couch cushion.

Eventually, he turns his head so he can see Bill looking at him, a bemused expression on his face and Stan rolls his eyes. “Stop looking so indulgent, you asshole,” he grumbles but there’s no bite to his voice, and Bill just chuckles and makes a show of changing his expression to one of deadly seriousness.

“I saw his art today,” Stan grumbles and rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling.

“Oh yeah?” Bill prompts, and Stan throws his arm over his eyes. He knows he’s being dramatic but he thinks he deserves it after the morning he had. When he peeks out from behind the arm, he can see that Eddie has come to the doorway and is looking at him with crossed arms and amusement in his eyes.

“It was that bad, huh?” Eddie teases and Stan covers his face again. He can feel the blush rising in his cheeks as he thinks about Richie’s painting and he doesn’t want to give Eddie the satisfaction of seeing it.

“Shut up,” he groans and takes a deep breath in and out.

“It was nice,” he finally admits. “It was more than nice, actually, and I’m so mad about it. Why couldn’t his art have been terrible just like his fucking personality?”

Eddie laughs out loud at this, and Stan knows it’s the _‘you’ve got it bad’_ kind of laugh. But what he’s got he’s not sure. He doesn’t want to go on dates with Richie. He doesn’t _like_ him. He just wants Richie to fucking press him into this goddamn couch and, now that he’s seen his artwork, maybe paint him afterward.

He can’t say that to Eddie and Bill though. Not if he doesn’t want to hear about it every day for the rest of his life.

“And I’m so sore too, the money is worth it but I wanna die,” he continues, allowing himself to whine like a petulant child for as long as Eddie will let him get away with it. “Where’s Mike when you need him, my back is killing me.”

“Nuh uh,” Eddie replies with a grin. “Those magic fingers are exclusive for Bill and I. If you want a massage you’re gonna have to either pay for it or ask this Richie guy for one,” he taunts. “I’m sure he’d be happy to oblige.”

Stan responds by lobbing a throw pillow at his face and letting his head bounce back against the couch cushion as Eddie retreats back to the kitchen, laughing as he goes.

He reaches for his phone and pulls up his messages, firing one off to Beverly.

_“SOS”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaand here's Richie!! I hope you all enjoyed it - I'd love to hear your thoughts so feel free to leave a comment below if you want!


	3. No Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan has a heart to heart with Bev, and leaves with a new motivation in regards to Richie. Unfortunately it doesn't pan out like he wants it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey loves! So sorry for the long wait on this chapter - I've been having a hard time with work and other stressors which has been making it hard for me to get much writing done on my WIPs the last few months so what little time I've had for writing has been going to quicker things like oneshots unfortunately! That said, I got a bit of a break in the form of time off for surgery recovery and I'm here with a new chapter for you!!
> 
> I hope you like it ❤️ I'd love to hear your feedback and I'm hoping to get another chapter out to you much quicker than this one came out :P

Their schedules don’t match up for them to meet until a few days later and Stan is practically vibrating by the time Beverly sits across from him at the table at their usual cafe. He already has her regular order sitting on a coaster in front of her seat and she grabs it as she pulls her chair in, waving at him with an indulgent smile as she does so. Stan hadn’t given her much more to go off of after his plea for help. He had refused to put any of it in the written form, not wanting to see it there in black and white. It would feel too real like that.

But now she’s here in front of him, looking at him with that expectant, gossipy expression she always has when she thinks she’s about to get something juicy out of someone. He loves it when they’re talking about anyone else, but now that it’s directed at him, he wants to wipe it off her face. He’s come to her for help though, so instead he just grimaces back nervously, and nods in reply to her wave.

She lets him sip his macchiato in peace for one blissful moment, but he should know better than to get used to it.

“So.” She demands, once she deems he’s had enough time to relax. He would argue that there’s never enough time for that, but she doesn’t give him the chance. “What’s the 411, Stan?”

He rolls his eyes at her phrasing and at the way she’s wagging her eyebrows at him, but sighs deeply before replying.

“I don’t really know the best way to ask you this.” He admits nervously. He stops again at this, chewing on his lip and avoiding eye contact, going as far as to take a much too deep gulp of his coffee that burns his throat and causes him to choke and cough harshly. When he looks back up, she’s still eyeing him curiously, but thankfully seems to be giving him time to collect his thoughts. “I guess…The best thing to do is just to get it out with so…”

He glances up at her anxiously and her right brow his lifted so high he thinks it might disappear into her hairline at any second. She’s leaning in over her coffee, the key she still wears around her neck dangling a mere inch above the hot liquid, with her chin in her hand, and Stan flushes awkwardly at the intense attention.

“So?”

“ _So_ ,” He continues at her prompt, and clears his throat, willing himself to just spit it out already. “Have you ever...uh…” He’s faltering already and he forces the next few words out in a long quick stream, his voice getting softer and softer with each word. “Have you ever been... _interested_...in any of the artists that you posed for?” He asks, cheeks bright pink and dropping his gaze from hers as soon as he spits the question out.

He busies himself with another, much more careful this time, sip from his coffee and there’s a moment of silence from Bev as she processes what he’s said. But the moment she does is incredibly clear, because there’s a peal of laughter coming from across the table, and Stan wonders if it’s possible for the steam from his coffee to just melt him into a puddle and he could just be mopped up by the barista and never have to face anyone ever again. Eventually he realizes that that’s a pipe dream at absolute best and as her laughter calms down to an indulgent giggle and then eventually silence, he lifts his head once more to glare at her.

“Sorry.” She mumbles, stifling another giggle which Stan knows means she’s not sorry at all. “But that is the _last_ thing I expected to hear from you.”

“It’s the last thing I ever expected to say.” Stan grumbles, still not quite ready to forgive her for laughing at him. “But I’m serious.”

“Okay. Serious face is on.” She promises, making a show of putting on a very dour expression that just makes Stan roll his eyes, but it also lifts the corners of his lips ever so slightly, which is not missed by Bev. “And with the serious face comes a serious question.”

Now _that_ has his attention and he looks up at her warily, eyebrow raised and prompting her to continue.

“Did Richie start showing up to your sessions?”

Stan almost spits out his most recent sip of coffee and stares at her dumbly.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She smirks, appraising Stan knowingly, and once again that calculating gaze makes Stan want to disappear. “I didn’t take him for your type, though Stanley, I’m impressed.”

“He’s not.” Stan insists quickly, though the look on her face tells him that he responded perhaps a little too quickly. “He’s not my type at all, he’s the most annoying human being I’ve ever met in my life.” Stan wonders if Bev’s right eyebrow should maybe get a job in a courtroom, he doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone with a more judgemental singular facial feature.

“I don’t know, it seems to me like you want to jump his bones.” The serious face is gone and she has a gleeful smile on her face, clearly ready to burst out laughing at any moment.

“Well whether I do or not, you had that question pretty quickly.” He counters, desperate to get the focus off of him for a moment. “Did you and Richie have a...a thing or whatever? When you were posing?” He hates the way his stomach twists with jealousy at the thought. Richie isn’t his boyfriend. He shouldn’t even be interested in Richie in the first place. He’s definitely much more Bev’s type than Stan’s, Stan could say that much with certainty, so he doesn’t like the defensive, accusatory way the question comes out of his mouth.

The idea of Richie looking at Bev the way he looks at Stan though, makes him feel sick. He thinks of Bev doing the things with Richie that Stan himself has been imagining and it makes him want to throw up.

Thankfully Bev doesn’t let him dwell on it very long and cuts off his reverie with another sharp laugh.

“God, you’re so transparent, Uris.” She mutters, that same mocking half smile on her face that Stan hates, because she’s _right_ . “No Richie and I didn’t _have a thing_ , I didn’t start posing until after Ben and I got together. But seriously, _have a thing_?” She asks incredulously, holding up her fingers in air quotes at the phrasing and laughing. “What are we, twelve? You can ask if I fucked him, Stan.”

If Stan had been drinking his coffee in that moment, he might have choked, but instead his eyes just widen slightly and he ducks his head in an embarrassed half laugh. It’s not like he never swears but he usually doesn’t talk about his sex life with his friends, nor theirs, and especially not in the unpleasant terms Beverly clearly prefers. He’s always been the type of person that’s embarrassed to talk about anything that happens behind closed doors, but it was either talk to Bev now, or suffer in silence while Richie draws his naked body in a room full of other people.

He takes another sip of his coffee, more for the purpose of just having something to do than actually being thirsty, and lifts his head back to hers. She’s still smiling that damn smile.

“God Stan, I know we’re from New England but you’d think a few years here in New York would have taken care of those Puritan roots of yours.”

He rolls his eyes good naturedly, declining to remind her that the Puritans didn’t have anything to do with Judaism, as Bev reaches across the table to gently shove his shoulder.

“Okay, okay, so Richie joined the group. And I may or may not want to...spend some alone time with him in the studio after the other artists leave.” Stan confesses, mumbling out the last admission with an embarrassed flush on his face, lips quirking up in an awkward smile as Bev cheers.

“Well, don’t spare any of the sordid details!” She laughs, and Stan blushes in response. “But knowing Richie, he’d be _more_ than amenable to spending some _alone time_ with you, Stan.” She tries to assure him when she nods semi apologetically at the other patrons around them who had turned to glare at her outburst. “But I think if you want to spend any time with Richie you’re gonna need to step away from the euphemisms.”

Stan groans and buries his face in his hands at that.

“I don’t _want_ to want that though, Bev. He’s so annoying.” He’s whining now, but he doesn’t care. He’s going to keep going as long as she’ll allow it, which, knowing Bev, won’t be long. “He’s been flirting and harassing me since we first met, I can’t give him the satisfaction of knowing it worked.”

“Well Stan.” She has on her serious voice again, and Stan knows he’s not going to get to do any more whining. “You know what you want, and you can either pursue it, which I _highly encourage and support_ , or you can whine and moan about it to yourself. But if you’re not going to do anything about it I don’t wanna hear anything else about it, because there’s no way Richie would turn you down. If it doesn’t happen, it’s entirely on you, because you are _exactly_ his type, even if he’s not usually yours.”

Stan looks down sullenly at his mug. He doesn’t want to hear what she’s saying, but he knows she’s right and it’s the reason he came to her. Well. That and the fact that Eddie and Bill were getting sick of hearing about the ‘Richie Debacle’ as Mike had dubbed it one night a week or so prior after Stan had ranted about Richie’s come ons for a solid ten minutes. Bev was his last option unless he wanted to talk to Ben about it, which he definitely didn’t. Ben would just get that dreamy look on his face and insist that Richie must be the love of his life.

So if he wants anyone to talk to about it at all, it looks like he needs to get a grip.

“Okay, okay.”

“Good. I really do think you should go for it, Stan. I’m not usually one to encourage any kind of romance with anyone you work with, but you could really use some loosening up, if you know what I mean.”

She honest to god _winks_ at him as she says it and he mimes puking into his coffee, but he’s smiling now and she shoves him playfully once again.

“Well, we can’t all be as loose as you are.” He says dryly once he’s gotten his composure back, but he immediately chuckles when she sticks her tongue out at him in response and throws a crumpled up napkin in his face.

“If you like clenching down on that stick up your ass, that’s your prerogative Stan. But I don’t think Richie’s would fit up there _with_ it.”

Stan can feel himself turning pink at her retort, but he’s laughing as he does. He loves Bev. He always has, she never pulls her punches and it’s his favorite thing about her. Their giggles slowly subside and she smiles softly at him from across the table as the silence falls.

“Richie’s a good guy, Stan.”

This takes him by surprise, and he stares at her curiously for a moment before thinking better of it and scoffing.

“He’s a good _artist_. I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say he’s a good _guy_.”

“He let you see his art?”

Her surprise throws him for a spin, and this time he can’t help but let it show on his face. Sure, Richie had seemed nervous about Stan seeing his art, but he figured that had more to do with _him_ than with Richie.

“Well I mean, he didn’t mean to. The other artists called me over to look, and I didn’t realize they were talking about his canvas until it was too late. What, he never showed you anything?”

“Not in the studio, no.” Bev replies, looking at him curiously. “I’ve seen it at exhibitions. But he usually never lets anyone look at the unfinished product.”

This gives Stan pause. He hadn’t even considered the idea of any of these paintings ending up in an exhibition. But it makes sense, and he’s not sure why it had never occurred to him. He’s not sure how he feels about the idea of these paintings of him on display for anyone outside the circle of artists to see. It’s probably too late now though, and the last thing he wants is one more thing to stress about. So instead he focuses back on the conversation at hand.

“I mean it’s not like it’s a big deal or anything. He’s a really talented painter, and besides, I’m sure if it was really an issue he would have stopped me from coming over to look.”

Bev doesn’t look convinced.

“What?”

“Nothing. Anyway, I think you should go for it.” She repeats, this time in a tone of voice that tells Stan the conversation is over. “Give him a chance, Stan. I think he’ll surprise you.”

Stan has half a mind to push for more information. He feels like there’s something more to this that she’s not saying, but if there’s one thing that’s similar about himself and Bev, it’s that once they decide to keep something to themself, there’s no getting it out of them. Instead, he just nods and takes another sip of his coffee, listening as she changes the subject to her witch of a boss at the fashion magazine.

* * *

The conversation with Bev had definitely given him a lot to think about and when he makes his way up the steps to Maggie’s studio the next day, he’s not sure whether he’s looking forward to seeing Richie or dreading it. Bev had forced him to come to terms with what he wanted, and while he still wasn’t sure what he wanted to do about it, there was a sort of sense of calm in knowing what he wanted from Richie.

March had blown in (like a lion, so they said) the previous week, and it practically pushes him through the door of the brownstone. He was still clutching his peacoat around him as he pushed through the studio door and flipped over the now familiar sign as he did so. Maggie always made sure to have a space heater for him but it was never enough and he’s come to realize that he’s just going to be cold for a few hours when he comes here. At least until summer comes, and the idea of standing there in all his sweaty glory in the hot, muggy New York summer has him almost thankful for the winter chill.

He doesn’t miss the fact that Richie’s easel hasn’t been set up yet, nor is the familiar head of curly, dark hair anywhere to be seen, but he shakes the thought away as he greets Maggie and the others. They still have almost ten minutes before the session starts, and there’s still time. He takes his time chatting with Maggie about today’s set up - she has a loose patterned silk robe she wants him to wear and there’s a lush victorian couch on the pedestal with a painted screen behind it, and when there’s a few minutes left he moves to his usual corner.

Before he steps behind his changing screen, he’s annoyed with how aware he is of the lack of Richie’s presence.

Again, he pushes the thought to the back of his mind and removes his jacket, quickly shucking off his button down and pants after it, and folds them in their usual neat pile on the table. He tucks his shoes under the chair and instead of pulling his usual blue bathrobe from his messenger bag, he dons the robe that Maggie had handed him.

The colors are beautiful and he can already see why she wants to paint it, especially against the bright crimson of the couch and the muted tones of the screen in the background. It’s soft to the touch and it slides deliciously against his skin as his arms slip through the sleeves and he wraps the lapels around his chest. Unbidden, the thought of Richie returns to him. He wonders what Richie would say about the sight of Stan in the robe. Something ridiculous with barely concealed vulgarity, he’s sure. It would embarrass him, burn his face scarlet as he walked up to the podium in front of all the others, and Richie would smirk at him from his easel only a few short feet away.

He doesn’t want to think about the fact that he still wants to hear it, whatever it would be.

But when he emerges from his changing area, Richie is still nowhere to be seen and Stan tries to conceal the disappointment he feels. He grabs a glass and fills it with water at the sink before making his way over to the set and waves politely at the group who have momentarily looked up from their easels and various conversations to acknowledge his presence.

“You can take the robe off for the warm up poses, Stanley!” Maggie instructs, her usual friendly but businesslike tone no longer startling him, and he nods, slipping the robe from his shoulders and draping it over the back of the couch.

He sets a timer and sinks into his first one.

Richie’s absence should really be soothing. Before Richie showed up these sessions were almost relaxing, aside from his aching muscles that is, and as he moves onto his next one, he knows it should be a relief that he’s not here. He should be able to go back to just zoning out and just letting himself exist in his body in a completely unsexualized context. But somehow it’s become harder to focus now that Richie isn’t here to distract him. He knows how ridiculous that is, and tries to ignore it by moving on to the next pose.

But all he can think about now is why Richie didn’t show up. Bev’s words from yesterday were ringing in his ear.

_‘He usually never lets anyone look at the unfinished product.’_

Was he that upset that Stan had seen his painting? Would he not come back until Maggie gets another model? He tries to think logically; logic has always been his safe haven after all, and it has never failed him before. He prides himself on his ability to be grounded in reality, to only accept things that he had empirical proof of. The timer goes off and he changes his pose once more, telling himself that it’s ridiculous to think that Richie’s world revolves around Stan, or anything that he does. He was probably busy. Maybe he had school, or work, or was focusing on other pieces, or had found another drawing group with a more attractive model to flirt with…

The timer goes off again just as his thoughts veer off the course he had intended, and he practically shakes the thoughts out of his head as he adjusts to sprawl out on the couch, his left leg dangling off the seat and his arms thrown back over his head.

The warm up poses continue much like that, and Stan finds himself wishing the other artists would chat with him a bit, as they rarely did, but they continue happily gossiping amongst themselves about their art shows, and their children or grandchildren. As they continue on to the twos and fives, he decides to settle for eavesdropping.

Sue’s daughter is having a baby soon, and Terry and Miranda are quietly talking about Bess in disparaging tones. That, Stan is actually interested in hearing, but their hushed voices are too quiet for him to make out much of what they’re actually saying. He hasn’t posed for Bess in awhile, focusing much of his time on Maggie’s group and the art classes at the local university. He doesn’t miss her, or the way she treats her models, and it’s nice to know that he’s not the only one who thinks so.

However, the distraction only lasts so long and it doesn’t take much time for his mind to be drawn to the empty space where Richie always sits. No one had set up in his space, which tells him that Richie didn’t tell anyone he wasn’t coming, and whenever Stan holds a pose that grants him view of the bare patch of hardwood, he can’t help but eye it curiously. No one else seems concerned though, and when the hour of warm up poses finally comes to a close, he doesn’t bother asking about it. He doesn’t want anyone to know that he’s thinking about Richie in any way, shape, or form.

It’s just natural to be thrown off by your routine being changed, he reasons with himself as he stands and slips the robe back on over his bare torso and picks his phone up off the floor. He nods politely at the group and smiles tightly at Maggie as he squeezes through to the door.

He grimaces slightly as he feels the dirt of the hall under his feet. He would normally put shoes on to go to the bathroom, but he had been so desperate to get out. The whole room had been starting to feel suffocating, like everyone was staring at him; not because they were drawing him, but because they _knew_ what he was thinking about.

 _This is stupid_ , he tells himself, rolling his eyes at his own ridiculous thoughts and gingerly pads down the stairs to the bathroom on the first floor. He doesn’t really need to pee, but he doesn’t want anyone to walk out in the hall and find him there. Doesn’t want to have to come up with an excuse for why he’s loitering in the hall in nothing but his robe. He’s disgusted at the feeling of the grime that must be collecting on the soles of his feet, but it’s at least something to finally distract him.

He unlocks his phone and pulls up his messages, quickly composing a new text to Bev before his better judgement can tell him not to.

 **To: Beverly** **  
** _He didn’t show up today._

He doesn’t give any more detail, knowing he doesn’t need to. She would know what he was talking about. He’s still staring at his phone when he makes it to the bathroom door, even though he knows that she’s at work at won’t text him back any time soon.

He spends a few more minutes pacing back and forth in front of the bathroom, thankful that the first floor studios all seem to be empty and stalls. But, wary of the fact that he can’t take too long of a break, he steps into the bathroom, grabs a few paper towels and wets them before making his way back up the stairs to Maggie’s studio.

After one more futile glance at his texts, knowing he won’t have a reply and still being disappointed, he re-enters the studio. As he wipes the grime from his feet with the wet paper towels he knows the next two hours are going to crawl by slowly.

When the two hour long pose ends (with still no sign of Richie, nor any mention of him from anyone else in the group), he emerges from the studio. The cash Maggie handed him is stuffed in his wallet and he braces himself for the cold wind as he steps onto the street. The one positive, he realizes as he pulls his phone from his pocket, is that he finally has a reply from Bev.

 **From: Beverly** **  
** _Sorry babe :( Maybe he’ll be back next week? Knowing Richie he won’t wanna stay away from your tight ass for very long ;) ;) ;) ;)_

Stan rolls his eyes and flushes slightly, embarrassed by Bev’s words even though there’s no one to read them but himself. He doesn’t deign to respond to the ass comment, and instead tucks his phone in his pocket, shoving his hands inside the pockets as well to brace them from the early March chill. Bending his neck to protect his face from the wind, he trudges his way to the subway station, and holds his monthly pass up to the sensor to get through to the Red Line and wishes he didn’t have to work a shift at the coffee shop this afternoon.

When he makes it to the platform, he rolls his tense shoulders out, and cracks his neck slightly in an attempt to work out some of the kinks that developed in his muscles throughout the day’s session. He really needs to go to the massage clinic this weekend, before he breaks apart.

Unfortunately the thought of a massage has Eddie’s words from the previous week ringing in his ears.

_“If you want a massage you’re gonna have to either pay for it or ask this Richie guy for one. I’m sure he’d be happy to oblige.”_

Until he arrived at Maggie’s Richie-less studio today, Stan had been sure he would too - not that he thinks he _ever_ would ask Richie for it. After today though, he’s not so sure. Still, this doesn’t keep the image of Richie’s large, knobby artist’s fingers rubbing out his sore muscles out of Stan’s head. He’s sure if he closed his eyes and imagined hard enough, he might be able to feel it, but he doesn’t have any desire to be the pervert on the subway with a boner today (or any day), so he shakes the image away as best as he can, and instead spends the rest of the wait for the train scrolling through Twitter on his phone, looking for any distraction.

* * *

He finally makes it back to his apartment late that evening after his closing shift at the cafe, and he feels dead on his feet. All he wants is to collapse and sleep for a week, but he has to go to his internship (that he’s starting to think is never going to pan out to a full time job) tomorrow, and has two more shifts at the coffee shop in addition to another posing session before his next day off. Not for the first time, he thinks he should maybe just drop everything and hop on a bus back to his parents and Derry. However, the idea of leaving his friends ( _and whatever might be on the horizon with Richie_ , an annoying voice that sounds a lot like Bev reminds him), has him pushing the thought away as he unlocks the door.

He can hear Mike bustling about in the kitchen, humming old standards under his breath while Bill types away on his keyboard in the living room, and the familiar sounds bring a small smile to his face. Eddie is on a rare day off from the Hospital and Stan can hear him singing off key in the shower which has him rolling his eyes good naturedly as he waves a tired hello to Bill, who takes one look at him and a sympathetic smile spreads across his face.

“Long day?”

“You have no idea.”

Bill doesn’t reply. He simply nods, knowing that Stan is probably right. They all know that Bill has never had to struggle with multiple jobs. The only one who has really ever been in Stan’s shoes in any sense of the matter is Mike, and Eddie even has to work insanely long hours at the hospital, so Stan appreciates that Bill doesn’t try to say he understands.

“Eddie’s been in there for a good half hour.” Bill tells him instead, nodding towards the bathroom door. “Feel free to bang on the door so he knows you’re home and doesn’t use up all the hot water.”

The two of them share a quick chuckle, knowing not to put it past Eddie to do just that, and Stan nods, banging twice on the bathroom door as he passes it on the way to his room. He doesn’t get a response from Eddie, but doesn’t expect one either. He knows Eddie heard him, and instead he takes the opportunity to drop his bag gently onto his chair and kick his shoes off before collapsing on his bed where he stays until he hears the shower turning off a few minutes later and then the sound of Eddie exiting the bathroom.

“All yours, Stan!” Eddie calls from the hallway, but Stan doesn’t make any move to get up.

He thought he had known what tired felt like when he was in college, staying up late to finish essays, spending hours doing homework before and after his classes, and juggling his extracurriculars and his 3.9 GPA. But nothing compares to working three jobs simultaneously and still struggling to pay his bills. His body is sore from not only the posing, but the long hours on his feet at the coffee shop, and he’s burning out fast from pushing and working as hard as he can at his internship, only to not have that work recognized with a real full time job.

Meanwhile, Bill, Eddie, and Mike had all been able to somewhat seamlessly find their way to success in their respective careers even though they had only graduated a year before him.

He can’t help but wonder if it’s ever going to get easier.

Knowing there’s nothing he can do about it at the moment, however, he drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom which is still full of steam from Eddie’s shower before him.

He cranks the water to his usual scalding temperature and slumps into the spray, letting the water beat down his back for several long minutes. The steam and the hot water do help somewhat in relieving the tension in his sore muscles and Stan leans against the wall to relish in the small comfort.

The knowledge that his day could have had an entirely different tone if Richie had been at Maggie’s studio that morning doesn’t sit well with him. However, after talking to Bev and thinking about it all day against his better judgement, he knows better than to try to convince himself otherwise. Instead, he allows himself this private moment to wonder if Richie is going to come back at all, and if he _does_ what the hell is Stan going to do about it anyway?

He knows what he _wants_ to do. Or rather, what he wishes _Richie_ would do, since he’s not sure he’s brave enough to make the first move.

An image of them alone in the studio comes to him, Richie sitting at his easel and Stan laying on the red Victorian couch he had been posing on that morning. Richie’s eyes are dragging across his torso and he lifts his brush to the canvas, but then pauses and looks back. He stands and comes to Stan, adjusting the position of his arm rather than having Stan do it himself, but then instead of going back to his easel, stays where he is. Stan can practically feel his fingers dragging across the skin where this imaginary Richie doesn’t pull them away.

His dick twitches with interest at the image and he’s brought back to the reality of being alone in his shower and before he can stop himself, he reaches down and palms himself, pressing down for some friction with the heel of his palm before wrapping his fingers around himself. He has a split second of wondering whether jerking off while thinking about Richie makes him a creep, but the need for the tension release wins out and he tries to ignore it for the time being.

He closes his eyes again, leaning back against the wall as he fists his hardening cock in his hand and the spray of the shower washes down his chest. He pictures Richie climbing onto the couch between his legs and looking down at him, fully clothed in his paint stained skinny jeans and flannel while Stan lies naked before him, the image sending shivers down his spine. He pumps his fist up and down, pretending it’s Richie’s fingers wrapped around him, imagining Richie’s ever present smirk disappearing into his skin as he bites at Stan’s neck and collarbones.

He releases a shaking breath at this, and the water of the shower allows his hands to glide freely along his dick. He slides the pad of his thumb along the vein that runs along the underside of his shaft and when it reaches the head he circles the rim before dragging his hand back down, his head falling back against the wall as he does.

The Richie in his mind is teasing him with slow but firm touches, and he can feel his knees shaking slightly beneath him, his hips rutting forward seemingly of their own accord. He lets himself pick up the pace, canting his hips into the movement of his hands and he bites back a groan at the idea of Richie crawling down the couch and licking along the length of his cock. The water from the shower adds to the image and he lets out a shuddering gasp as he tightens his fist around the head. He pulls it down and back up again repetitively, imaging Richie taking him into his mouth and bobbing up and down while Stan shakes against the plush crimson cushions and it doesn’t take him long to push himself over the edge.

His hips rock forward desperately into his hand as he cums and as he catches his breath, he opens his eyes just in time to see the white liquid flowing down the drain.

Moments later, the realization of what he just did hits him, and drops his head back against the wall of the shower, much harder this time, and groans in frustration. He had been telling himself for weeks that Richie was annoying. That Richie was obnoxious, and that Stan wouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole no matter how nice his cheekbones were or how much Stan wanted to feel those fingers all over his body. And Richie _is_ annoying and obnoxious, but the conversation with Bev the day before seems to have broken him of any idea that he wasn’t going to give in.

Because here he was, his cum running down the drain of his shower to the thought of Richie sucking him off. For the first time that day, he finds himself hoping that Richie doesn’t show up to the studio next week. He doesn’t think he can look him in the eye ever again.

As if to add insult to injury, the warm water of the shower suddenly turns icy cold and Stan leaps away from the spray, cursing, and startled out of his thoughts. He should have realized they wouldn’t have much hot water left after one of Eddie’s famously long showers, and he braces himself to step back under the spray. He frantically scrubs at his skin with his cheap, drugstore body wash as quickly as he can, and as he shivers under the freezing spray he thinks that he probably deserves it after what he just did.

As soon as he finishes, he turns the water off, jumping out of the shower and wrapping himself up in a towel. He pats himself dry and pulls on his old NYU sweatpants and a slightly too large t-shirt that he thinks he might have stolen from Bill years ago, back when they still lived in Derry. He gently tries to pat his curls as dry as he can without roughing them up with the terrycloth, and after hanging the towel on the rod that’s already overcrowded with his roommates three towels, finally pushes the bathroom door open.

He’s greeted with the very welcome aroma of whatever Mike had been preparing in the kitchen, and makes his way towards his friends.

“You used up all the hot water.” He grumbles at Eddie, but he’s smiling tiredly, no malice in his tone and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“You were in there long enough, yourself.” He retorts before looking back at his dinner and twirling a heaping mouthful of linguini onto his fork. “What were you even doing in there, jerking off?”

He’s hit the nail on the head, but before Stan can realize he was just joking, he turns bright red and almost chokes in embarrassment. It’s too late when he catches up though, because Bill and Mike, who aren’t sitting with their backs to Stan like Eddie is, have the perfect view of his expression that gives him away entirely.

Mike is kind enough to try to not react, keeping his expression as neutral as he can despite the small, close mouthed smirk. As for Bill, subtlety has never been his strongest suit and he outright laughs, causing Eddie to whirl around in his chair to look at Stan, mouth dropping open and staring with a combination of shock and mirth before he too lets out a loud, raucous laugh.

“Oh my god, you _were_!” He crows, and Stan glares at Bill before stalking over to the refrigerator, turning his back on Eddie as he lets out peals of laughter. As he pulls open the door to see what he has that he can make for his own dinner though, Mike calls out to him.

“I set a place for you too, man!”

“Oh. Thanks.”

Stan turns around, surprised to see a heaping plate of pasta at the unoccupied space at the table. Eddie’s laughter slows suddenly, and Stan thinks Mike has probably kicked him under the table. After glaring slightly at Eddie once again who is still stifling giggles, he smiles gratefully at Mike and pulls out the chair to sit.

Mike is a great cook, and he knows he shouldn’t be surprised at being included - his roommates never exclude him from group dinners, but Stan never wants to assume. Or worse, intrude on what could possibly be a date night. But Mike is grinning at him, and Bill has gone back to smirking as he eats his dinner while Eddie leans back in his chair, drinking a sip of his wine and grinning smugly at Stan.

“This smells great, thank you, Mike.” Stan says, choosing to ignore Eddie for the time being and digs in after smiling at Mike who nods and grins amiably in response.

The four of them continue eating and the tension in the room eventually slips away after Mike pointedly changes the subject and they begin chattering about their own days. Stan listens to Bill talk about his frustrations with his agent and publisher, and Eddie as he complains about his long shifts at the hospital and how desperate he had been for a day off.

“I would have killed someone if my pager went off today.” He grumbles and the other three chuckle in response, rolling their eyes and knowing he would do no such thing.

“Sure you would, babe.” Mike teases and Eddie glares playfully at him. Stan can’t help the pang of jealousy he feels as he catches a glimpse of Bill watching the two of them adoringly. He would never regret living with the three of them, but when you’ve been single for as long as Stan has and are constantly surrounded by the most sickeningly sweet trio of a relationship that is Bill, Mike, and Eddie, it’s hard to not feel envious.

He hasn’t been in a relationship since Patty broke up with him their sophomore year of college. They had tried the whole long distance thing for awhile when she transferred to a college in Georgia, but it hadn’t worked out and beyond one or two one night stands with some random guys the following two years, he’s been the Stan Uris solo show ever since, which for awhile had been just fine by him.

He has his career to focus on, but now that he’s faced with the desire to actually want to hook up with somebody, a _specific_ somebody at that, he can’t help but be reminded of how alone he is compared to his friends. He had never been bothered by being the only single one out of the six of them before, but now that Richie was in the picture and dancing along the outskirts of his mind at seemingly all times, he suddenly can’t stop thinking about it.

 _And what’s up with that anyway?_ He thinks to himself, stabbing his fork into the pasta on his plate with slightly more force than necessary. It’s not like he wants to _date_ Richie. He almost shudders at the thought. He just wants to hook up, and maybe have it be an ongoing situation if the first time is good enough. But he guesses that’s at least it’s better than being alone.

“So, _Stanley_.” Eddie says, breaking him out of his thoughts as the conversation is swiftly pointed back at him and Stan stares back with wide, annoyed eyes at Eddie’s amused expression. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your eventful entrance.” He teases, and Stan glowers in response. “Does this mean there’s been developments with Artist boy?”

“Can you call off your bloodhound?” Stan grumbles halfheartedly to Bill and Mike, who simply laugh, holding up their hands in surrender and Stan knows that they don’t have any more control over Eddie than he does.

“That’s not an answer.” Eddie reminds him, his lust for gossip just as bad as Bev’s seems to be.

“No.” He says, making eye contact with Eddie and his voice deadpan before he takes another forkful of spaghetti. But Eddie is clearly not ready to be deterred and continues staring at Stan expectantly. “Nothing is happening.”

“Well you were there today, weren’t you? You’re always complaining about him, _something_ had to have happened.”

“He’s kind of got a point.” Bill adds, and Stan turns to glare at him accusingly.

“Don’t encourage him.” He groans, his head falling forward and he sets his fork down to rub exasperatedly at his temples. “Besides, I thought you were sick of hearing about it. But yes, I was there today, and no, nothing happened. He didn’t even show up.”

He had hoped that would put an end to it, but the moment of quiet ends all too soon as Eddie lets out a cartoonish “Aha!”

“So that’s why you’re such a grouch! You’re upset he didn’t show.”

“I’m not any more of a grouch today than I am any other day.”

Stan is refusing to look at Eddie, staring instead at his plate as he piles up another forkful, and wishes Eddie would just leave it. He hates how perceptive Eddie is when it comes to this sort of thing, and he just wants to be left alone. Admitting what he wanted from Richie to Bev was embarrassing enough, but she is significantly more understanding and significantly less relentless than Eddie.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, Stan.” Mike’s gentle voice cuts in before Eddie can keep pushing. “It’s not our business if you don’t want it to be.” Stan nods in thanks, but Eddie is practically pouting on the other side of the table.

“Well he made it our business by complaining about him practically every night for weeks.” He grumbles in tone that should be under his breath, but Stan knows Eddie is just petty enough to try to get under his skin with it.

“Eddie.” Bill’s tone is both calm and warning, and Stan is grateful to him for it, even though he knows Bill is almost as curious as Eddie is. “D-D-Drop it.”

The two stare at each other for a moment before Eddie sighs, and slumps back in his chair, understanding that neither of his boyfriends are going to back him up in his attempts to push information out of Stan.

“Well, all I’m saying is that if you’re not going to fuck him, then stop complaining about him.” Eddie grouses eventually, before downing the rest of his wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to disappoint you with the lack of Richie but he'll be back in the story soon ❤️ Feel free to let me know what you think in a comment and/or by coming to say hi on Tumblr! I'm [@sunflowerstozier](https://sunflowerstozier.tumblr.com)!


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